


Cultural Attaché

by French Army Syphilis Epidemic 1495 (nagia)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, in which case it will be slash, or at least a D/s relationship, unless there's more of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25025251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/French%20Army%20Syphilis%20Epidemic%201495
Summary: "As a former member of the current ruling family," he says, "my expertise in Wutaian language, customs, and combat tactics has been requested.  Please consider me at your service."Yet another person to give orders to, Sephiroth is thinking.  Yet another person to have to direct, when what he actually needs is someone who needs no direction.He is absolutely positive that none of this thoughts show in his expression.  But the Turk tilts his head for all of a moment -- and it's such a slight movement that he almost misses it -- and then asks, mildly, "Have you considered learning to kneel?"Or: the one where a young Turk is sent to advise General Sephiroth regarding his homeland.
Relationships: Sephiroth/Tseng (Compilation of FFVII)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Cultural Attaché

**Author's Note:**

> I blame a ghost. Also, will there be more of this? No idea, but probably. I can't resist worldbuilding for Wutai and also can't resist Tseng domming the hell out of people who would otherwise go undommed.

Of all the things Sephiroth had not expected Shinra to send, the young man -- probably between five to seven years younger than Sephiroth himself -- manages to be the most surprising. His high cheekbones and the cutting angle of his eyes mark him as Wutaian; his dispassionate expression and the black dot above his brow do nothing to suggest any flaws in that assessment.

The suit, though, a navy blue so dark it looks black, throws him off. Translator or assassin? He genuinely can't tell. It unsettles him. He looks blandly up at the stranger, unwilling to admit either his disquiet or his uncertainty of the man's purpose.

"Repeat your clearance level and voice imprint," Sephiroth tells him.

The translator-or-assassin's voice stays as smooth as it had been when he introduced himself, unhurried and untroubled. "I'm a tier 2 analyst in the Department of Administrative Research; my clearance is first order. Voiceprint: I'm your cultural attaché." 

Something about the continued neutrality and seeming apathy bothers Sephiroth. He isn't sure why; neutrality and apathy are easier to work with. Significantly easier than Zack's or Angeal's passions and hobbies.

It strikes him, then, that this man makes him feel like he's missing something. He's not the first, of course; Sephiroth might have been a military genius from childhood, but even he wasn't born perfect. This man, though, he's the first who doesn't make it personal. Instead, he looks at Sephiroth with the eyes of someone who has judged the world itself and been distinctly unimpressed.

Given that Sephiroth has always been sure that he could do everything so much better, if only Shinra and Wutai were in his hands, this stranger seems less an antagonist and more a kindred spirit.

It helps that the voice print matches the code phrase sent in the most recent dispatch, the one Zack just delivered. The stranger would have had no access to it.

"Welcome to the team," he says. It's a rote pleasantry. He's never figured out how to sound like he means it. His is not a voice given easily to warmth, not like Zack's.

The Turk assigned as their cultural attaché -- which is still a damnably ambiguous job title, given the innocuous name of his department -- nods back.

"As a former member of the current ruling family," he says, "my expertise in Wutaian language, customs, and combat tactics has been requested. Please consider me at your service."

Yet another person to give orders to, Sephiroth is thinking. Yet another person to have to direct, when what he actually needs is someone who needs no direction.

He is absolutely positive that none of this thoughts show in his expression. But the Turk tilts his head for all of a moment -- and it's such a slight movement that he almost misses it -- and then asks, mildly, "Have you considered learning to kneel?"

"I hadn't."

"You should. I always considered it a valuable life lesson." A pause, and while the attaché doesn't quite smile, his jaw relaxes slightly, implying it. "It would provide insight into your current difficulties with Lord Kisaragi and his wife."

Sephiroth narrows his eyes at the man, considering the offer. "Teach me how to kneel, then."

"Of course. You can call me Tseng, if you choose."

"Not your real name?"

An entire world of bitterness slides into Tseng's eyes, but then he smooths his expression. It looks less like a corporate spy regaining control of their face and more like Tseng just decided to stop being a person.

An ability Sephiroth envies. He was never quite allowed to consider himself a person: he is too much more than that, and the weight of being more than human makes him less so.

"The name is real enough, now," Tseng says, smooth, cool, unbothered, like what he's announcing doesn't matter at all.

Former member of the current ruling family. Interesting phrasing, especially paired with that last remark.

"If you could stand up, General." The words are a request, but the tone is flat and even, not a request at all.

Sephiroth rises from the cramped stool at the cramped desk and paces a few steps away, into a clearer part of the campaign HQ.

"Legs shoulder width apart." A pause, and then, "Keeping your hands on your thighs, sink down to your knees. Don't bring them together -- they should remain separate. Good. This is _kiza_. Now for the more difficult part."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Without bending your spine, lean backward enough to sit on your heels. Hands remain on the thighs. This is _seiza_."

Sephiroth is capable of wielding a sword as tall as he is with one hand. He was injected with mako in his infancy and childhood, and was born of one of the only Ancients that remains in the world. He is in what would be peak condition for a professional athlete ten years younger than himself; given his age and profession, he's a marvel of physical and surgical genius.

In short, he isn't used to extended physical discomfort, particularly the feeling of strain that burns in his thighs and ankles just now.

"And this teaches what?"

Tseng's mouth curves into an actual smile, but it only lasts a heartbeat. "Patience," he says. "And the art of the contradiction, which Wutai reveres above everything else."

He arches his brow higher.

"This is my favorite image to explain the concept: people who were not raised sitting seiza habitually -- and that includes most modern Wutaians -- are uncomfortable. Maintaining the position is difficult and even painful. But the position itself looks stable and serene. Doesn't it."

Contradiction. "Appear one way, be another."

"Appear untroubled," Tseng corrects him, "despite a collapsing throne, overwhelming military opposition, wavering support from one's armed allies, a terminally ill consort, and a succession crisis waiting in the wings."

That, he assumes, is the conclusion of the lesson. The point is made, after all. So Sephiroth rises.

"Interesting," he says. His tone comes out dry and bored, almost careless, but he feels the opposite.

Tseng looks him up and down in what must be a deliberately slow, obvious stare. "Yes," he agrees, voice equally mild. "Now again."

Sephiroth rests his palms on his thighs but makes no other attempt to obey the instruction. At least, not until Tseng's gaze snaps to his hands, and then he goes slowly. He extends the movements for as long as he can, first settling in the stretched, half-up position of _kiza_ then relaxing into _seiza_. He looks blandly up at Tseng, unwilling to show any of what he's thinking.

He probably shouldn't be thinking it anyway.

Tseng moves forward. He walks at an even pace, unhurried, but not with the pointed lack of urgency Sephiroth had used. No, this is a pragmatic man, whose every word and gesture comes from utility.

Or at least someone who wants to look that way.

Tseng looks down at him for a heartbeat before he reaches out and tucks two fingers under Sephiroth's chin. He's wearing fingerless gloves, the leather worn into butter softness already, as cool against Sephiroth's skin as his voice had been earlier.

Two fingers only, and Tseng uses them to raise his chin. He keeps pushing past the point where Sephiroth is comfortable, until he's no longer looking at Tseng but instead has to raise his eyes to the ceiling. A raw, quiet ache starts up along the back of his neck, radiating toward the sides, and it's worse than the burn of the stretch in his legs.

More intimate. He's sitting like this of his own will, after all, but the rest --

"Lesson learned?" It's a question this time. And for all his tone is cold and disinterested, Tseng asks it softly.

"Yes."

"Good," Tseng says, still soft, but less cold. "There is much to teach."


End file.
